


Cold Coffee

by broners



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, M/M, brb going to hell, my friend and I are sinners and can't stop shipping these two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 10:11:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4742450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broners/pseuds/broners
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesus, you hope that’s the end of that. You never want to talk to an Ampora again. </p><p>Life is such a bitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> It's probably better if you don't read this. It's going to be incredibly self-indulgent. 
> 
> However, if you do choose to dive in, let's keep this fic on the down-low, alright? We only need so much trash in the world, and this piece is pushing it.
> 
>  
> 
> Note: this is loosely based off of askskaiahigh, a human!stuck ask blog from tumblr.

Silas

* * *

The first time you called Richard Ampora, you were fuelled almost entirely by stress, caffeine, and a rage known only by a single father who’s child was wronged. 

Your day started off with several calls from work, requesting you get some extra paper filled at home before an important client came in. Of course, they only gave you two hour’s notice, so the rush to get everything done was enough to fry your over-tired brain (aren’t you supposed to sleep more as you get older?). You had to tip back three cups of coffee not to nod off at your own kitchen table, and ended up spilling the third anyways, which was a fucking joy when you only had fifteen minutes until your work would be calling again. 

Needless to say, by the time you got everything done - late, by the way, which frustrated you beyond belief, because you would have finished in time if you had been given _proper notification_ \- you were already prepared to go lie down for a week-long nap. And then, of course, Kankri brought another issue to your attention. 

Someone tried to kiss him without asking permission. 

Under normal conditions, you’d be pissed. In that moment, you were prepared to throw a child into the sun. You had to take several even breaths before you felt calm enough to consider your options, and another fifteen before you made the official decision to call Ampora Sr. 

You remember Richard vaguely, back from high school. As far as you can re-call, he was a dick, so you’re hardly surprised that it’s his son causing Kankri grief. You ask Claudia Leijon, the school counsellor, and one of your closest friends, for the offender's home number. A part of you wonders what sort of a mess you’re opening up by contacting an Ampora, but then, the fury sitting at the back of your head is enough to push you onwards. You almost aren’t expecting him to pick up the phone, but after only four rings there is a small click, and your mouth spits out what you prepared: “Hello, Mr. Ampora? It’s Silas Vantas. I have some concerns about one of your sons…”

The voice that answers is surprisingly familiar. Deeper, you’re sure, but with the same sort of seafarer’s lilt you could never place as an actual accent. “Oh, hey, Vantas! It’s been a while. What’s goin’ on with my son? Is, ah, everythin’ alright?” 

He remembers you, too? That’s a surprise. “Yes, high school was many years ago by now. It’s regarding your son, Cronus, I believe his name is.” You go on to explain what Kankri told you, including the trespassing, and the unwarranted kiss. “… I wanted to inform you about this in hope that your son gets, you know… Manners.”

You were relatively certain that would be the end of that, but then Richard retorts with something ridiculous about whether you’re _sure_ it was Cronus. Like your son would mistake him for someone else? And then, how the upper class ‘have to have manners’. Is he fucking serious? To push his shitty point home, he adds, “I just don’t see why Cronus would be associatin’ with a Vantas.”

Oh. That’s how it is. That absolute piece of-

“Ahah, yeah I’m sure it was your son, Kankri wouldn’t lie. And excuse you, but you almost make it sound like there’s something wrong with being a Vantas?” Holy shit, you’re going to fight this asshole. You can feel your metaphorical hackles raising. 

Richard says some more bullshit, but all you really catch is, “I’m just not seeing what my son would have gotten out of it, you know?” 

Haha, wow, fuck the Amporas'. 

“Ok, listen here Dick.” That’s it, you’re going to hand his petty, purple-loving ass to him. “I don’t really care how you go about this, but while you’re passing off the arrogance trait to your kids, you better teach them about a thing called personal boundaries and a term called trespassing. In other words, just in case you didn’t get that, if shit happens to my son, or if Cronus comes unannounced again, he’ll take a worse consequence than just a slap to the face. Are we clear?” 

And that’s the end of that. Dick says something about not associating with your family again, and the phone line goes dead. You let out an aggravated groan, and let your head drop to the counter. Oh, fuck, didn’t you clean up the god damn coffee!? 

You go grab a cloth, angrily scrubbing away at the mess on your counter, wishing you could clean up your own life that easily. Jesus, you hope that’s the end of that. You never want to talk to an Ampora again. 

Life is such a bitch.


	2. elevator music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can honestly say you never planned on ending up in a place like this.

Silas

* * *

“Excuse me, sir? We’ll see you now,” the voice is pleasant, but unexpected, and you tense briefly in your seat. A glance up from your briefcase reveals the receptionist standing in front of you, smiling, and gesturing to one of the fancy, opaque glass doors to her left. You stand, clutching your briefcase a little harder. Alright, here you go. With your free hand, you brush down your jacket, and head for the doors. You never really understood the point of companies having glass walls and shit if they were just going to cover them anyways. What purpose did it serve? Aesthetic? Though, as you glance around once more, you guess it makes sense - the entire office building has an air of modern design, complete with smooth, marble counter-tops for the front desk, and black tile arranged neatly across the length of the floor. Even the chairs in the sitting area have the appearance of being regularly sat upon by high-end business men, all black and compact, covered in faux-leather. 

You can honestly say you never planned on ending up in a place like this. You feel extremely out of place, and even in your nicest suit jacket, you’re very aware of how scruffy you look in contrast to the prim and proper office officials wandering in and out of the lobby. You have the bizarre urge to go shave. 

Shaking yourself back to the moment, you quietly enter the gestured room, trying not to feel intimidated. It’s been a while since you’ve had an interview. Your previous job lasted a good portion of your life, and despite the hellish hours and terrible organization, it paid enough that you could provide for your kids. So, you stuck through the ups and downs, doing what they asked, when they asked. Your job was never great, but you didn’t precisely hate it, so you figured you would be in that position for a good portion of your life. 

Ugh. Thinking too much about getting fired will have your temper flare up again. You push it from your mind, instead focusing on the interior of the small office. It’s simple, with a smooth black desk and several chairs. There’s a book case as well, with a few titles you don’t recognize - “How to Succeed when the Stock Market Stocks out!”, and, “One-Hundred Easy Business Rules”. You sincerely hope no-one reads those. 

There’s a second door, near the back of the office, that swings open before you can think much more about the sort of assholes you’ll be working with if you do get the job. You straighten yourself in your chair, and give your best smile to the stout lady that walks in. She glances over you a few times, lip upturned, before she returns your smile. You shake hands, and she sits opposite you, pulling out a few forms. You follow her motions, trying to settle into the chair. 

“Alright, darling. Simon? Oh, no, it was more exotic, wasn’t it?” she muses, rooting through a black bag and not really making eye-contact. She has her hair pulled tight back into a bun, and is wearing one of those pin-striped skirts, complete with a frilly blouse up top. If you had to guess, you’d place her somewhere in her fifties, judging by the amount of crinkles near her eyes. 

“Silas,” you eventually correct, making an effort to be polite. You really don’t belong here. 

“Mhm, of course, dear. So, you know about the position, yes? Essentially you will be required to do whatever our chief in Sales Management requests. This could mean graphing, or stock calculations, or even retrieving coffee, hoo hoo,” she snickers at the end, giving you a look as though you should catch the joke. After a moment, she seems to realize her mistake, and adds, “Our sales manager has a bit of a reputation for bringing in ridiculous coffee orders. He’s a bit eccentric, but he does get a lot done for the company. I’m sure the two of you will get along swimmingly!”

You grit your teeth slightly, trying your best to return her grin, but barely manage to pull your lips back. Oh, joy. Well, you’re sure you’ll warm up to him? ~~That’s fucking likely~~. You’re a little pissed he’s not meeting you now, honestly. If he wants an assistant, shouldn’t he come see them? Ugh. “Right, ahah. Well, as you’ve seen in my resume, I’m more than capable of completing the work he’s listed. I would be available to start as soon as you need me.”

“Wonderful, wonderful! Well, I don’t see much point in prolonging this, do you, dear?” the lady stands, handing you a few of her papers. “Want to fill these out, hun? I’m going to bring a copy of your resume up to Sales, and as long as your boss clears the paperwork, you’ll be good to go!”

Wait, what? “I’m, uh. Hired?”

“Well, I don’t see why not!” she hums, pulling a pen out of her bag. “I have to be honest - we’re trying to fill the position as quickly as possible. And you are certainly qualified, so, if we can snatch you up now, all the better! Though, as I said, we will have to pass it first. Give me ten minutes, dear.”

The lady grabs all her stuff, and just as fast as she entered, she’s leaving again. You watch, a tad shocked. That was a lot more slack than any of the other interviews you’ve had. Despite the suddenness of it all, you have to admit, a weight lifts from your shoulders. You shouldn’t be this pleased yet, especially when it’s still a possibility that this Sales Manager will reject you. Still, it sounded as though you’ve got this pretty well locked down. 

You wait as patiently as one can when you’re alone in a small office. 

There’s a clock somewhere, and you only just tune into the ticking, as you start fidgeting again with your briefcase. You really do need this job - you’re worried about the kids, and the current state of your bank account. You’re going to be late paying rent, too, if you don’t get another paycheque within the next few weeks (god, you don’t want to have to deal with Makara). Not to mention, there’s a sad expanse of fridge that’s growing without being regularly replenished. You’ve made spaghetti the past three nights, and stocked up on instant noodles, but jesus, you don’t want your kids living off that shit. 

You have to admit, part of the allure to this job was the increase in pay listed. You’ve been struggling to support your little family for the last seven years, and the security of a larger paycheque would give you so much more freedom. Even if this isn’t the ideal job - being some business’s man’s bitch just isn’t your cup of tea - you’re sort of relieved that the interview has gone well so far. Just sitting at home, worrying over the housework, has been hell these past few weeks. You’ve never felt so much like a mother hen. 

The day you got fired was one of the worst days you’ve had in a long time. You went through the day relatively normally, running around trying to get all your shit done. Of course, you had to deal with at least three major hiccups in the line of work, and were expected to not only smooth those out, but help finish your co-worker’s lengthy presentation. Your job was stressful more often than not, but that had been like scraping your eyes out with a dull spatula. You were so stressed by the end of the day, you thought your were going to rip a handful of hair out. You certainly weren’t prepared to get called into your boss’s office, or get _yelled at_ for _not completing paperwork on time_. You’d love to say you left calmly, but…

Needless to say, the sooner you can get another job, the better. Preferably one that doesn’t have such astoundingly stupid fucking standards.

The door opens again, and you shove those thoughts to the back of your head. The lady is smiling through the opening, beckoning at you with one hand. “Come on, dear, you’ve got the go ahead! You can come meet your boss now. He’ll give you the details, and your starting days and such.”

You stand a little too quickly, nearly knocking your chair over. Oh, holy shit, thank god. A steady pay, a full-time job, and barely a hitch with the interview. You don't care what you're doing, this will put you in a much better place than before. Maybe things will get better now. 

You follow the lady out the back entrance, into a hallway that opens into a larger section of the building. It's filled mostly with cubicles, and a few large printers. A few people eye you as you walk past, and you swear one of them winks. 

One small man even hums as you go to pass, and pats the lady’s arm, pausing her to say, “Got a new one, eh, Dolores? Is this the poor bastard helping out our lovely sales manager?” He glances over you, almost sympathetically. 

“Oh, hush,” Dolores tuts, glancing back at you briefly. You feel your stomach swoop a little. Well, if you weren’t sure before, you’re confident now that he’s going to be a pretentious pisspot. Then again, it still can’t be as terrible as your last job. You manage a small smile, and the man even salutes you, chuckling a little. 

Jesus, it’s like you’re being sent to war. 

Trying to quench any uneasiness, you follow Dolores towards an elevator, and she hits the button to the eighth floor. As you ride up, you try to imagine what your new boss is going to look like; portly, bald, and pink in the face is the best you can come up with. 

When the elevator doors open, Dolores leads you through another small work space, with a few nice desks. A couple of the people wave hello to her, and eye you pleasantly. You end up in front of another opaque, glass door, and watch Dolores knock. Wait, is that a name on the-?

“Come in!” Hold on, you know that voice. The door starts swinging open, and your chest constricts. “Ah, is this the new assistant? I can’ tell you how relieved I-“

No. _Fuck no_. There's no way in hell.

“… _Vantas?_ ”

This isn't happening. Your knuckles turn white from clenching your hands so hard, and you make an effort not to throw down your briefcase. Perched behind a large, oak desk, complete in a fancy suit and jacket, you get a glimpse of your new boss.

“Mr. Ampora," your voice is deadpan, but you can feel the daggers in your eyes. "What a god-damn delight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These first few chapters might be short, but I'm hoping to get the ball rolling in the future. In the meantime, enjoy!


End file.
